“When the weather is fine,” Frank says, “but don’t forget that we don’t know when she was killed or when the body was placed there. Perhaps it was only put there recently—or maybe it’s been there all along but the weather’s been so crap that the Boulogne citizens haven’t come up here.”
“True. Although…” Mac pauses as if processing this nuggetalongside another recently surfaced one. “I thought one of the gents from last night told me that the state of decomposition of the body was consistent with the death having taken place around the time she disappeared, five months ago. So if that’s true, wedoknow the approximate time of Miss Daniels’s death.”
Frank nods slowly, and I can see that he’s hoping Mac doesn’t have all the necessary verifiable sources to draw this conclusion yet. Time of death is a crucial piece of information and could be headline-worthy. When Frank doesn’t say anything more—knowing that he still has to play nice with his fellow reporter—Mac adds, “But you’re right that we don’t know when the body was actually placed there.”
The men grow quiet. So that Frank doesn’t think I’m overly interested in their morbid exchange, I say, “My goodness, the view from the top of the column must be magnificent. I wonder whether you can see the ocean. I’ll have to ask if one can climb to the top. I do see a platform up there.”
Just then a line of uniformed police officers marches out from a small stone building behind the column. The most decorated of the lot climbs the step of the platform and stares out at the reporters. “Messieurs, nous avons découvert des preuves sur les lieux du crime,” he calls out, then pauses.
Finding my college French useful, I’m about to translate for Mac when another officer yells out an English translation. “Gentlemen, we have discovered evidence at the scene of the crime.”
I wait for this laborious bilingual communication to transpire back and forth until we hear what this new clue or clues might be. “We have located Miss Daniels’s handbag in a bush near the body. While certain items appear to be missing, her identification remains.”
Handy,I think, that Miss Daniels’s papers were still in her purse. If the body had no longer been recognizable, then those papers would have identified her. It’s almost too convenient. The reporters surrounding me, however, mutter nothing of the sort.
The translating policeman then bellows, “We have also found asyringe peeking out from the surface a few feet from Miss Daniels’s body. Our tests have shown that the vial bears traces of morphine.”
At this, the reporters go wild with questions, and a policeman blows his whistle to restore order. The officer in charge announces that he will only answer one query and randomly points to the journalist closest to him.
“When will the autopsy report be made available?”
I had been wondering the same thing myself. It will reveal much.
“We hope to have it finalized in the next couple of days. That will be all,” he announces, then pivots away.
A murmur ripples through the journalists. Bands of reporters clump together, excitedly chattering about the briefing and what it means for the case. “Is the illegal drug trade involved?” I hear one man ask and another reply, “Maybe the dead girl was an addict.” No one utters a word about the fortuitous happenstance of the handbag discovery. Mac gets pulled into a conversation with a group of journalists he knows from London, and I’m left standing alone.
But I don’t feel awkward at being the odd “man” out, as many women might. I see my invisibility as an opportunity to do a bit of sleuthing of my own and then quietly dash away. Glancing over to the place where Frank indicated the body had been found, I ask myself what my fictional detective Harriet Vane would do. I see that no one is in the vicinity. Not even gendarmes. As if I’m simply out for a stroll, I walk in that direction. I stop only when I reach four soaring oak trees bound together by thick rope and a sign statingNE PAS ENTRER. Do not enter.
This must be where they found her.
Well,I think,I’ll abide by the letter if not the spirit of the law here.After all, this might be the only such chance I ever have. Standing as close to the rope as I dare, I lean over it and peer down onto the small area of grassy earth shielded by the four thick tree trunks and ringed with bushes.
Suddenly I can envision the body of poor twenty-one-year-old May Daniels jammed into that tiny space in perfect detail as described in the reports. Her long, slender limbs curled into the fetal position. Her brown, carefully bobbed and styled hair falling to the side in disarray. One stylish black T-strap shoe half off her foot. Her dark, lifeless eyes staring straight ahead into nothingness.
Tears well up in my eyes as May becomes very real. She’s no longer just a news headline for Mac to chase or a chance for us to prove our real-life detective skills and return to the Detection Club triumphant. She was a hardworking young nurse on the hunt for a bit of adventure during her time off. A young woman attempting to earn a living in a society that frowns upon unmarried working females, even when the dearth of men makes finding a husband nearly impossible. A person upon whom harm was inflicted. A girl, discarded and forgotten. What happened to her and why? Who was May Daniels?
Dabbing away my tears, I have an epiphany about how the Queens and I must proceed. We must get to know May in order to understand what happened to her. We must treat her as if she were a character in one of our novels but never forget that she was very real. And that doesn’t mean looking for answers at the end, as everyone else seems to be doing. That means starting at the beginning.
Chapter Ten
MARCH 23, 1931
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER,FRANCE
I return to the open area near the column. The police are long gone, and the briefing is over, but the journalists remain. They huddle in groups of three and four, speaking in hushed tones, undoubtedly about the latest rumors.
Near the base of the enormous Napoleon’s column, I find Mac engrossed in conversation with three other newspapermen. Their faces are animated as they speak, and they write in their notepads at the same time. Mac glances up when I join their circle but immediately shifts his attention back to the men.
This is my moment.
“Mac?” I ask quietly.
“What’s that, Dorothy?” Mac replies, his tone distracted and his eyes still on the other reporters.
“I may head back into town, do a spot of writing at a café or the inn.”
“Makes sense. Don’t know when I’ll be done here.” He distractedly busses me on the cheek, then rejoins the exchange.
